A Dance With Remorse
by Haidan Sky O'Sullivan-Jandura
Summary: Some things are ment to be forgotten.


A Dance With Remorse.

All of a sudden it hit her. Just like that. Why did she have to go to that section of the library? She was doing good untill the title, 'Self-Harm and Mutulation' jumped out at her. She was taken aback, lost in old memories of when she used to causily and savagly drag the glistening blade across her fair skin. The girl winced at the pain, but of course it was just emotional, but none the less still sent chills down her spine. "Please.." she mumbled under her breath, still in shock. Subcounciously she reached out and tore the book from its slot, checking, making sure nobody else saw her, she sat down in an empty isle. She had to fight hard to keep tears from streaming down her face, as she ripped the unholy book open, filled with a sudden fury caused by pure jelousy. The first page she saw was of a story explaining a girl's first cut. She rubbed her fingers against the numbing words as she slipped into a fantasy of past times.

She was back in her shower. The warm water streaming against her small frame. On the built in shelf lay three razor blades; one of which taken from a pencil sharpener, another a Professional Blade, and her favorite, a German Credo. A vast colletion for an unworthy hobby. The blades were so thin between her teeth, the metalic sound each one made as she pulled it from between her lips sent goosebumps of anticipation through out her body and brought a sly smile to her face. Her eyes scanned her arm, looking for places without already existing scars. She watched with an emotion which cannot be described as she solemnly dragged the thin Credo across a clear path. She winced at the sharp bite of the blade, which wasnt that bad, but in a way she craved it. But what she begged for and needed the most was the blood.

At this point she had waltzed over the other end of the shower, carefully out of reach from the rushing water which would inturn carry all of the evidence away. But it was not time for that yet. Guilt, shame, and betrayal dropped her to her knees, weak with desperation she prepared herself for her ritualistic self-scarification. Patiently she watched as the blood came up in little bubbles at first, then swiftly ran down her arm onto the floor where the water lapped it up. These would cause nothing more than tiger stripes, cat scratches if you will. She grew more and more excited, feeling the emotional high, reaping the unseen benifits. She needed it, had to have it, more and more blood gushing out to satisfy her emotional needs. Without thinking she raced the blade across her arm, hearing her tight stressed flesh ripping as she carved deeper and deeper, causing more and more blood to swarm her once white skin, now stained with her sins, pooling around her limply erect body. With the last drop having been spilt from that well, she changed location and began working on her thighs. Here she could really let loose, vent all of her pent up anger and frustrations.

With each stroke she whispered a sin, with each crimson stream, she watched it leave her body. Having cleansed herself of her most recent faults, she surrendered herself to the welcoming water patiently awaiting her return. Now the unmistakable sting of a fresh cut gaurded her arm like a bracelet and she looked down at her savaged arm and thighs and the bloody pink waters below. The loud distrubing sound of the school's bell miserably brought her back to reality. Subconciously she reached out and clenched her arm and pressed her thighs. No pain. No scabs. No relief. Just dated scars, fading with her old obsession. This time she couldnt stop it and tears stung her eyes and left watery trail which was so close to the crimson ones she had been so comforted by. She gripped her arm tightly, feeling her nails dig and drag across the now blank canvas as she left the library. Craving heavily for what she could not have, the main thing that kept her going for years, her only true friend for so long, her sweet release. Unfortunatly, she could not do that anymore. An addict no longer. Not under its sly and convincing hold. Shaking wearily from such an emotional outburst, the first in many months, left her furious and upset. But this time, begging for the ultimate relief.


End file.
